


There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for time

by hleonaa



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hleonaa/pseuds/hleonaa
Summary: "Jake Peralta often found himself in situations that no one had an inkling of how he could get there. Even when others didn’t, Jake always knew his way.He couldn’t confidently say so at this very moment. He didn’t know why he was standing in front of people he loved, with everyone looking like the air had long been sucked out of the room. He didn’t know why he was looking at Gina, who was hiding her face behind a dark blue handkerchief instead of her phone. And he was even more confused because Rosa was slumping next to her, looking even more defeated than the day the fifteen-year sentence fell upon their head.Jake Peralta always knew his way. Yet he did not know how he found his way up that stage, waiting to give a eulogy at his wife’s funeral."Amy's gone, and Jake tries (and fails) to cope.(Inspired by What I Wouldn't Give by We The Kings.)





	There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for time

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing fanfics and my English sucks so please give as much constructive criticism as possible!

Jake Peralta often found himself in situations that no one had an inkling of how he could get there.

At the age of five, he found his way up the tallest tree in the neighborhood. It took thirty minutes, two firemen, and a full-on freaked out Karen to get him down. No one had the foggiest idea how he got there in the first place, and how he managed to sit on top of the tree for two hours on a December night with nothing but a Die Hard-themed short-sleeved T-shirt on.

Two weeks out of the academy, he caught eight burglars. His captain laughed when he said he did it all by himself. The man stopped laughing the second Jake’s partner confirmed he was on his own. No one knew why a fresh-out-of-the-academy, young beat cop could single-handedly took down eight men with weapons on his third patrol.

But Jake always knew very well how he got there. He knew for sure he was the best climber in the neighborhood, and even more sure he was the best cop in New York (nay, the world), and no criminals could be of trouble to New York’s finest. Even when others didn’t, Jake always knew his way.

He couldn’t confidently say so at this very moment. He didn’t know why he was standing in front of people he loved, with everyone looking like the air had long been sucked out of the room. He didn’t know why he was looking at Gina, who was hiding her face behind a dark blue handkerchief instead of her phone. And he was even more confused because Rosa was slumping next to her, looking even more defeated than the day the fifteen-year sentence fell upon their head.

Jake Peralta always knew his way. Yet he did not know how he found his way up that stage, waiting to give a eulogy at his wife’s funeral.

His wife’s. The love of his life’s. Amy’s funeral.

The words echoed in his head. Weird words, he thought, mostly because he was almost definitely sure her name and “funeral” were not allowed to be in the same sentence. It was just purely impossible. Death was surely not allowed to touch Amy Santiago-Peralta. It was a scientific fact, just as the fact that all NASA’s spaceships have the line “United States” written in Helvetica, Amy’s favorite font, according to the film she made him watch last week.

Yes, she made him watch it last Saturday night, after arguing over which one would make a perfect movie for a weekend movie night, a two-hour boring to death documentary about a boring to death font being Amy’s choice, and Jake’s being Die Hard. The winner, like every other similar argument, ended up being Amy’s choice, with a grunting Jake only agreed to give in provided that he would get to choose the pizza (two slices of meat supreme from Tony's, served display temperature) (“Eating pizza cold is just insane, Jake,” “Hey! There’s a difference between ‘cold’ and ‘display temperature’, alright?” “Whatever you say, Pineapples. Hurry up now, you wouldn’t want to miss the film.”). Everything about that night felt so new and real in his head, from her eye roll at his questionable choice of food to the painful smack on his shoulder when he fell asleep twenty minutes into the documentary, that he was sure everything was just a bad dream: that air-deprived room with his three best friends, his sergeant, his mother, Victor and Camila, seven stern-looking men, and a bunch of other people whom he was working with, all looking wrecked and pale and incredulous, and if his alarm would go off in a minute and he would greet Amy and go to the precinct and--

There was a hand on his right shoulder. Firm and warm. He didn’t feel in his dreams. Dreams never felt this real.

He turned his head right and was met by Captain Holt, looking as emotionless as ever. The man was wearing a black suit. Jake vaguely registered that his hand on his shoulder was trembling. Or it was his own shoulder that was trembling. He couldn’t really tell.

“Everyone is waiting,” Holt said, his voice echoing in Jake’s head like thunder in the middle of a night that was quiet and peaceful just minutes ago even though Holt was using his usual deep and tender voice. His ears must have stopped listening for a few hours. “You should say something.”

Everyone was waiting. For him. Holt had impatiently waited for him to get to work on time for the first two years working at the Nine-Nine. Terry had waited for him to fix his carelessly finished reports full of simple grammatical and spelling errors. Amy had waited for him to get out of the sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. He finally built himself the habit of arriving at work five minutes early instead of thirty minutes late after dating Amy for two months and they basically came to work together. It took only two weeks into the relationship for his reports became detailed, clean, and flawless, now that Amy had officially become his professional proofreader. And he said goodbye to his cannibal-turned-woodworker cellmate Caleb and death threats from Romero and every nightmare that prison had given him eight weeks after the fateful trial, all thanks to the squad’s, especially Amy’s, sleepless nights at the precinct, working his case and busting Hawkins.

Now, everyone was once again waiting for him. But he couldn’t do it.

Not without Amy by his side.

He felt his mouth opening and closing on its own. It felt dry despite him remembering checking off the seventh cup of water of the day on the customized Water Intake Tracker made by Amy (when he reflected on it, it was four days ago). Jake’s head had always been buzzing restlessly, always full of ideas for a cool catchphrase for catching perps, Die Hard quotes he knew like the back of his hands, bad puns, his trademarked “title of your sex tape” jokes, the Miranda rights, birthdates of all of his friends and family and even of Amy’s all seven brothers, positions of Amy’s medications, Amy’s social security number (but not his own), types of food Amy was allergic to. But right now, when he needed to make a speech, his head was just blank, completely devoid of any thought or memory.

Jake had no idea how he got on that stage or how he got off it. He vaguely registered a gentle push on his back, a guiding hand, and a reassuring look as someone pressed him down the chair next to a weeping Charles. He only snapped out of the foggy state when Captain Holt’s voice appeared, occupied the room that was seemingly all devoid of air. He sensed a mild pain in his right palm, and he looked down to see a line of blood by his thumb, and some more blood on the nails. He stared at the dripping blood instead of at Captain Holt, who was making a speech in his place.

“Amy Santiago-Peralta was,” he began, “a dedicating sergeant, a kind colleague, a loving wife, and above all, a great friend.”

Holt paused, then continued in his usual monotone, consistent tone. “I am sorry for getting so emotional.” Suddenly, Jake was thrown back into Holt’s early years and his announcement of getting promoted and leaving the Nine-Nine at the same time. The Jake at that time didn’t expect to kiss Amy for the first time that day. As Johnny. As Jake. The first brick of their relationship, their first release of effort trying to cover up feelings about the other. He certainly didn’t expect to put a ring on her delicate finger years later in the same evidence locker room, or exchanging vows with her right outside the precinct they’d spent nearly a decade working together, or losing her soon after vowing to love her forever, till death do them part.

He was thrown out of the memories as fast as he was thrown into them. He was back staring at the blood in his right palm when Holt continued his speech, which was now a string of indistinct sounds unceremoniously passing by his ears, and the dripping line of blood seemed to expand into splashes of red paint in front of his eyes, until his vision remained a sea of blood, and then complete darkness.


End file.
